Ghost of a Girl
by Alethnya
Summary: Death, as it turns out, wasn't quite as final as Molly had always believed. A Halloween inspired Sherlolly fic with some peripheral Warstan.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**A/N: In the spirit of the season, may I present a ghostly Sherlolly tale for your enjoyment! Thanks, as ever, to my sister, my beta - Xaraphis. Congratulations on posting your very first story today (more lovely Sherlolly goodness...Beautiful Dreamer...go on and give it a look-see, eh?)**

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><p>The night was dark, moonless – gathered storm clouds hung like looming black shadows, lit from within by the lightning that cracked across the sky. Rain fell in sheets, trailing down the window pane, the patter of it against the glass loud in the silence.<p>

She stood in the middle of the room, her eyes focused on the rolling torrent of water as it spilled down the glass. Feeling strangely numb, she blinked hard, trying to think…to remember…

There was something she was forgetting…

Something had happened. Something wasn't…_right_.

_Slowly_, she admonished herself, forcing her eyes closed and sucking in great, greedy gulps of air. _Breathe. Relax. Think._

When she finally felt more in command of herself, she took one last deep breath and then opened her eyes. Looking around now, she took stock of her surroundings – the fireplace along the far wall, the two low arm chairs facing one another before it; a desk covered in books and papers with a laptop tossed haphazardly atop the lot, a buffalo head peering down upon the mess from the wall above. She frowned, familiarity an itch beneath her skin.

_She knew this place_.

She turned further. A flash of lightning lit the room, throwing the stylized damask wallpaper covering the wall nearest to her into stark relief, making the sloppy yellow smiley face painted across it glow eerily in the half-light. She stared at that smiley face, lips parting and breath coming shorter, sharper as the itch of familiarity flared into a burn, searing flames of frustrated recognition licking up her spine.

"I know this place," she whispered to no one, voice trembling. "I know I do. I _know _this place..."

Her eyes dropped lower, falling upon the sofa pushed up near the wall just at her feet. Low and long with angled arms, it was covered in well-worn leather that was cracking in spots and rubbed smooth in others. It was…it was…

Lightning flashed and suddenly, the sofa that had been empty was empty no longer, a slight figure lying along its length. One arm draped over the side of the cushions, the head of the unknown figure was turned toward her, sightless eyes staring out into the room from beneath a spill of long, dark hair.

_Dead_.

Her breath caught in her throat and she stumbled backwards, away from those limp fingers that just barely brushed the floor near her feet. She slammed her eyes shut, hands balling so tightly into fists that she could feel the bite of her nails against her palm. Thunder rolled across the sky and she opened her eyes to find the sofa empty, no trace of the small, still figure from only a moment before.

That small, still figure…

_She couldn't breathe…_

_A face hovered above hers – near-black eyes the only thing that she could see._

'_Ah, Molly-girl…you're a dear to die so prettily. We'll set such a scene__for our darling Sherlock, won't we now?'_

_She couldn't __**breathe**__…_

Eyes widening as horrified remembrance stole the very air from her lungs, Molly Hooper reached up to claw at her neck, fingers tangling into the scarf that hung there still – blue and soft and smelling of _him_ – as she desperately tried to pull it off. Gasping, sobbing, she fell to her knees, yanking and tearing at the twisted length of cashmere that _would_…_not_…_budge_…

"Get off," she wailed, voice high and thin, "get off, get off, _get off_."

Distantly, she heard the creak and slam of a door, followed by footsteps thumping up the stairs that she knew stood outside, but she hardly paid them any mind – she was too focused on trying to get that scarf _off_. It was only when the door creaked open and the lights flicked on that she stopped, frozen.

_Waiting_.

It was him. She knew it, though she did not look up – _could _not look up. He was standing just inside the door, the high polish of his shoes gleaming at the edge of her periphery. Slowly – desperately – she followed the long, lean lines of him up from his shoes to the black trousers that disappeared beneath the painfully, achingly familiar bulk of his beloved Belstaff. His hands, as long and elegant as the rest of him, were poised above the first button of the coat, tensed and white-knuckled. She was surprised to find nothing but the pale column of his throat where his blue scarf should have been – she flinched, fingers convulsing on the one wrapped round her own neck, pretending his bare neck meant nothing when she knew that it meant _everything_.

His face – so, _so _dear to her even if she did want to slap it more often than not; _had _slapped it, in fact – was tense, generous mouth drawn tight and jaw clenched. He was breathing hard through his nose, slow, deep breaths that she knew were meant to be calming but didn't appear to be working in the slightest. His beautiful eyes, a kaleidoscope of green and blue, were locked, unblinking, on the sofa.

Her heart leapt, something like relief easing the worst of her panic. Did he see it too?

If he saw it too, then maybe, just maybe…

"Do you see it?" She pushed up onto her knees. "What is it? Sherlock…do you see it too?"

Nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes. He just kept staring at the sofa, eyes red and expression raw.

Molly frowned, all thoughts of her own distress evaporating at the sight of him troubled. Shoving up to her feet, she took a lurching step toward him, hand reaching out to him. "Sherlock? What's wrong? What's happened?"

Still nothing.

Panic setting in once more, she stepped up beside him, fingers hovering just shy of touching. "Sherlock," she had meant to shout but the word got caught in her throat, escaping finally as nothing more than a tremulous whisper. "Why won't you _answer _me?"

The slam of the outer door again, the stomp of boots on the mat and then the steady trudge of measured steps upon the stair and then John Watson was pushing the door open, fading blonde hair darker for the rain that had soaked him. He paused just inside, blue eyes going dark with sadness when they fell upon the unmoving form of his friend.

Molly watched, hands twisting together in front of her, as he edged his way around Sherlock's back. Eager for him to help where she apparently could not, she shuffled backwards, clearing a path for him. "I don't know what's wrong, John," she said fretfully. "I tried to help, but he won't…"

"Sherlock," John said and all of the sorrow in his eyes was there too, in his voice, "mate, you can't keep doing this." His arm lifted, waving in the general direction of the sofa. "There's nothing there."

Molly, shifting from foot to foot, glanced back at the sofa and then away again quickly – still empty, though in her mind, she could see that figure…see the empty eyes and small, slack mouth…

_Your mouth's too small now…_

"No," Molly moaned the word, arms lifting to press the heels of her hands against her eyes as she shook her head. "No, no...I can't…" She dropped her arms again, panic rising up like bile in the back of her throat as she stared at the two men. "Look at me! Why won't you _look at me_?"

"She's not there, Sherlock." John's voice had hardened slightly, gone more forceful. "Molly isn't _there."_

Molly flinched, eyes flying yet again to the sofa, jigsaw pieces falling into place. "Oh," she breathed, one small, shaking hand lifting to grab at the scarf still wound tight around her neck.

"I am aware of that, John." Sherlock's voice, tired, strained…_sad_. "Believe me, I am…well aware."

"Oh, _God_," she sobbed, her other hand pressing against her mouth as tears gathered in her eyes. "You can't see me…"

"_Sherlock_…"

"Leave it."

She turned back to them – back to _him_ – eyes shining; knowing and sorrowful. "You can't hear me."

"Mate…if you need to…to _talk _about it…"

"I said _leave it_, John."

She watched him stalk away, shedding his coat as he went and tossing it sideways over John's chair, his shoulders a straight, proud line. John, cursing beneath his breath, lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

Molly did not follow. Just stared after them, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I'm not here." She closed her eyes, gripping the scarf hard. "Because I'm dead."


	2. Chapter 2

She was, in fact, quite dead. Had been, she surmised, for nearly three months before the night she found herself standing in the middle of 221B with no idea of where she was or what was going on.

It was a strange thing, she discovered quickly. This being dead business was nothing at all like she had expected it would be. When she had considered the possibility of life after death – and she had, quite often; an unavoidable side effect of spending so much of her life working with the dead – she had pictured something a bit more…esoteric.

She certainly had never imagined that she would spend her afterlife confined to Sherlock Holmes' flat.

Then again, she had never imagined that she would be murdered on his sofa by a vengeful James Moriarty and thus left to haunt a place that she had barely known in life. But apparently, that was precisely what had happened.

His sofa…

Curled into a corner with her feet tucked up beneath her, she ran a hand over the leather, frowning thoughtfully. Sherlock's insistence on keeping it had become something of a mystery to her. He certainly never sat on it. No one did, in fact. Ever.

Except her.

Sherlock could make it as off limits as he liked to the rest of the world, but all things considered, she rather thought she could sit on it to her hearts content – that she could bloody well do _handstands _on it, should the mood take her.

Molly cocked her head to the side, annoyed by the bulk of the scarf interfering with the motion but knowing from experience now that there was nothing she could do about it.

_Sherlock_…

He was not often at home any more. When he was, he spent most of his time either in the kitchen or in his bedroom. He would blow into the flat at all hours of the day and night, eyes skipping straight over the sofa as he hastened past it. Only very, _very _occasionally did she catch him staring at it as he had that first night and the pain she could read in his face always left her aching inside, longing to reach out to him. To comfort him.

Which was silly. He hadn't wanted comfort from her when he was alive – he certainly wouldn't want it now. It warmed her a little to know that her death had affected him, considering they had barely spoken in the months prior to her death. They _had _been friends, of a sort, after all. Not close; not really, but…

The door crashed open, slamming hard into the wall and Molly jumped, scrambling to her feet as John shouldered through, one of Sherlock's arms draped around his neck. He hauled his stumbling friend into the room with Greg Lestrade following after, Sherlock's other arm tossed around _his _neck.

Sherlock was giggling madly and Molly – across the room in a blink; one of only a few truly exciting things she had discovered about being dead – took quick stock of him, her heart in her throat. He did not appear to be injured, save for a butterflied gash on his right cheek, but his eyes were dilated and glazed, sure signs of…

"Any idea what they gave him?"

"Not a clue," John answered, worry mixed with strain in his voice.

"Di…az…epam," Sherlock almost sang before bursting out into a fresh spasm of giggles. "Diaz...epam…"

Molly bit her lip, wringing her hands in the scarf; desperate to reach out and help him but knowing she couldn't.

"Oh, Christ, he's _gone_," Lestrade griped, adjusting his hold on the swaying detective. "Fuck, mate, but you're heavier than you look."

"Tell me about it," John agreed, arching his neck to look back toward the door. "Mary?!"

"Here," Mary Watson called, her feet clattering swiftly up the stairs. "I'm here. Sorry…had to get Lizzie settled with Mrs. Hudson." She came around to the front of the three men. "What can I do?"

"Bedroom door," John directed with a nod of his head. "We need to lay him down."

"Bedroom?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes, craning his head to look over John's. "Can't we just dump him on the sofa?"

John pulled a pained face. Mary sucked in a sharp breath.

Sherlock _exploded._

"No!" He snarled the word, all traces of the giggling idiot he had been only moments before gone. Struggling against the arms holding him, supporting him, he knocked Lestrade backwards and John sideways as he launched himself forward. Molly let out a cry, lurching forward to try and catch him…forgetting herself…

He went straight through her – in more ways than one. Warmth like nothing she had felt in _so _long enveloped her and she gasped, the scent of him suddenly _everywhere_.

"Got you," she heard Mary intone gently from behind her as she struggled not to cry. "I've got you, Sherlock."

"Jas…mine," Sherlock rasped, nearly choking on the word. "Smell…jasmine…'n…lem'n."

"What's that, luv?"

Another giggle, but different. Darker. "Jas…mine an'…an'…lem'n." A deep, shuddering inhale. A grunt from Mary and then a loud thump. "Mmmmolly…"

His voice _broke_ and Molly whirled around, chest heaving and tears gathering once more in her eyes. Sherlock was on his hands and knees on the floor, Mary kneeling beside him, one hand on his back, the other wrapped around his arm.

"Jesus, John, I'm sorry," Lestrade muttered behind her. "I didn't…I didn't think…"

"It's fine…"

"I don't think I really even _knew_…"

"None of us did, mate."

Molly blinked – _shocked_ – and then knelt down, one hand hovering over Sherlock's lowered head. "I'm…I'm _here_," she whispered. "Oh…I'm here, Sherlock."

He was shaking now, arms and legs trembling violently as he attempted to hold himself up. Mary wrapped herself tighter around him, holding and comforting in the same gesture. "Oh, luv…this is why you need to _talk _about it."

John knelt down beside him, meeting his wife's teary eyes across Sherlock's back. He wrapped his arms around his friend, mirroring Mary's grip. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's sit you up, yeah?"

Husband and wife pulled together, gently hauling Sherlock up until he was sitting on his knees, wide, red-rimmed eyes staring straight ahead blankly. Molly, seeing the tracks of tears running down his cheeks, pressed a hand to her heart, breaking afresh at the sight of his grief.

Grief, it would seem, for _her_.

She walked forward on her own knees, reaching out – again forgetting herself in her desire to help _him_ – she laid her hand delicately against his cheek, the same shocking warmth jolting up her arm and making her heart clench. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm so sorry…"

He sucked in a ragged breath, eyes falling shut and loosing another tear which rolled down his cheek, straight through her hand. "Molly…"

Then Lestrade was behind him, pulling him up as John and Mary lifted from below and then they were stumbling down the hall, virtually dragging him to his bedroom. Molly fell back onto her bum, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, holding tight as the warmth of his touch began to fade, making her cry all the harder.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favorited! You all make my day! Two more chapters to go, I think. **

**And as always, a hale and hearty 'thank you'**** to my beta, Xaraphis! You're the bestest baby sister in the whole wide world! ;) **

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><p>The Watsons unilaterally decided that they were spending the night at Baker Street.<p>

Sitting with her back to the wall beneath one of the windows, Molly watched them in silent awe. They worked so well together; a seamless unit, caring for their daughter and their friend with a loving efficiency that made her chest ache. She had never had that – the comfort and ease of being so perfectly matched. She had wanted it…longed for it...but she had never found it.

And now, she never would.

_Did you miss me, Molly? I bet not nearly as much as I missed __**you**_…

She dropped her head to rest on her knees, eyes shut tight against the memory of flat, dark eyes and a dagger-sharp grin.

When she lifted her head again, the sun was shining. She eyed the dust motes swirling and dancing in the fattest column of light, resignation drawing a sigh from between her lips. She had lost time…again. The first time it had happened, it had terrified her. Since then – and as with _so _many things – she had learned to deal with it; to just accept it and move on.

Shuffling steps moved down the hallway and Molly turned her head just in time to see Sherlock, clad in his rattiest pajamas with his burgundy dressing gown over top, disappear into the kitchen. From the subsequent clattering, she guessed he was making tea.

Molly, tired and wrung out, sat where she was, dropping her head back against the wall behind her, rolling her head back and forth, her eyes locked on the kitchen entry. She wanted to see him – needed to know he was ok. What she had seen in his face…

She closed her eyes, shook her head.

"The drugs," she hissed at herself. "It was the drugs, not him. And anyway…it hardly matters _now_, does it?"

He walked out of the kitchen then, clasping a steaming mug of tea. Molly frowned, leaned forward, eyes riveted to the brown porcelain that sat cradled between his palms. That was…at least it certainly _looked _like…her mug from Bart's. She watched, confused, as he folded himself into his chair, careful not to spill tea down his front. He settled in, staring straight ahead and occasionally sipping from the mug.

Two hours later, he was still sitting there, still cradling the now empty mug and Molly was still watching him…still confused. It was so strange. It looked so much like he had…like he perhaps _did _actually…care.

For _her_.

The knock on the door surprised them both, though Sherlock was the only one who leapt to his feet, setting the mug down carefully onto the table beside his chair. He pulled the door open with a sigh. "Hello, Mary," he said stiffly, sounding as resigned as she felt.

"Sherlock," the other woman greeted, pausing just inside the door to lean up and brush a quick kiss to the consulting detective's dutifully lowered cheek. "How are you? Feeling better?"

Looking mightily offended, Sherlock shut the door behind her and then brushed past her, nearly throwing himself back into his chair. "It has been two days, Mary…I am, I assure you, perfectly fine. In fact, I do believe I told your husband exactly that when he rang earlier."

Mary, who had dropped her purse and coat by the door, walked over and dropped herself down into John's chair, a smile on her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Fibbing again, Sherlock," she said in a brook-no-arguments tone. "You know I can tell."

Sherlock scoffed, twisted himself sideways in the chair, long legs folding up nearly to his chest and arms crossed above his knees – a portrait of spoilt petulance. "I spent nearly a decade of my life quite happily addicted to heroin, Mrs. Watson – I think I can well handle a dose of _Valium_."

Mary sighed, looked down at her hands in her lap, the fingers of her right hand playing with the bands of her wedding rings. "That isn't what I was talking about and you _know it_, Sherlock."

He went still at that. Very still. _Statue _still. "I've no idea what you could possibly…"

"_Sherlock_," Mary chided, turning his name into a warning and a reprimand all in one. "You can lie to everyone else, but do _not _lie to _me_." She leaned forward, bridging the distance between them and placing a hand over his, squeezing his fisted fingers lightly. "Now…how _are _you?"

Molly, who had moved without even realizing it, watched from behind where Mary sat, heart twisting at the way Sherlock's face fell. All of the arrogance that he had worn so well, for so long, simply…evaporated and he looked…he looked…

She took a step forward, hands dropping to brace herself on the back of John's – Mary's – chair.

He looked so _sad_.

"She didn't know," he rasped, his voice cracking like jagged, broken glass. "I never..." he stopped, biting off the words and turned his face away, staring hard at the wall just above the fireplace. "She counted, Mary. She _mattered_…"

"…and you never told her."

"I didn't know how," he admitted roughly. "And she wouldn't have believed me if I did."

Molly frowned, pained. Hurting for him…hurting for her…hurting for a _them _that she had never honestly believed possible.

A _them _that _would_ never be possible…

Below her, Mary was shaking her head. "You don't know that."

"I do know that," Sherlock corrected with a sigh. "I know it only too well. I was abominable to her for years, Mary."

"But she loved you, Sherlock. You _know _she did."

His eyes closed and Molly found herself walking toward him, closing the distance between them. "Yes, yes…she loved me," he snapped, impatient now, tired. "She loved me right up until she didn't anymore, which, amusingly enough, was just when I was discovering how much I did, in fact…"

He stopped, jaw clenching. After a stretch of particularly pregnant silence, Sherlock sniffed loudly and shook his head. "And then it was too late anyway."

More silence, though heavier this time – mournful. Mary was staring at Sherlock, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Molly slipped around her and the chair she sat in, stepping up as close to Sherlock's reclining form as she dared, staring down at him, feeling like she had been turned inside out.

_God…we could have been...we might have been…_

"Can I…" Mary stopped, hesitated, "can I ask about…that night?"

Sherlock stilled, every muscle tensing. "No."

"I asked John – you've not spoken of it at _all_. Not _once_." She shook her head, expression pained but determined. "That's not healthy, Sherlock. You can't just keep something like that bottled up inside…"

Molly crouched down, her hands clutching the arm of his chair as she peered up into his unseeing face, heart bleeding for him. "She's right, Sherlock. She's so right. Please," she whispered, voice shaking, "please don't do this to yourself."

"I can and I will," he snapped – answering both of them without even realizing it – muscles in his face twitching as he fought to keep his expression blank. "The details are in the police report. If you want to know what happened, I suggest you read it. I'm sure Lestrade would be happy to share it with you."

"This isn't about that. This is nothing to do with _me_, Sherlock. This is about _you_…"

"Precisely," Sherlock spun around abruptly, bare feet hitting the floor with a smack, his elbows landing on his knees as he pinned Mary with a bitter look. "Those memories are mine, Mary. _Mine_ – mine to do with as I please; and at present, it very much pleases me _not _to discuss them."

Mary sighed deeply, eyes closing as she shook her head in frustration. "Sherlock…

"_However_," he cut across her, his arms lifting from his knees, hands finding the arms of his chair and gripping tight, "I do assure you that should I ever be struck with the perfectly maudlin and utterly useless urge to _share _my _feelings, _you and your even more persistently irritating husband will be the very _first _to know."

Molly who had leapt to her feet when Sherlock sat up, turned away and walked over to the tall windows behind his chair, staring out into the brilliance of the day. She couldn't look at him now; couldn't bear to see what she knew she would see. The coldness. The detachment. The complete lack of anything resembling empathy. _This _was the Sherlock _she_ had known first.

_This _was the Sherlock she had known best.

It was also the Sherlock that she now knew to be a complete and utter _lie_.

Despite herself, she watched his reflection in the window glass – watched as he and Mary stared one another down; neither moving…neither wavering…

"How d'you think Molly would feel, seeing you act like this?" Mary's face was as blank and cold as Sherlock's; her voice as icily cutting as his had ever been. "You really think _this _is what she would have wanted?"

Sherlock's back went ramrod straight and the arms of the chair groaned beneath the fierceness of his grip. "Among other things, I very much doubt she _wanted_ to be strangled to death by James Moriarty," he barked out. "The universe was never particularly interested in giving Molly Hooper what she _wanted_."

At the window, Molly flinched, stung by his bluntness though she knew she shouldn't be. Sherlock Holmes in a temper was the deadliest of blunt objects.

"Sherlock!"

He shoved himself up out of the chair, stalking across the room, the tails of his dressing gown flapping behind him. Tearing the door open, he spun back to face Mary, everything about him screaming to be left _alone_. "Now, if you would please leave, Mrs. Watson…I have work to do."

Molly closed her eyes, dropped her head forward, pressing her forehead against the glass – wishing that she could feel the warmth of the sun that she could see pouring through the dirt-streaked panes. Blocking out the sounds behind her, she stared down at the street, watching people scurry past, going about their business…living their lives…

The door slammed.

She looked up, catching his reflection once more just as he stalked across the room and disappeared down the hall. A moment later, another slam – louder and harder than the first. A picture fell in the hall, crashing to the ground and sending shattered glass tumbling across the hardwood.

Molly closed her eyes again, sighing wretchedly. "Oh, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So I lied...I think this is going to end up being 6 chapters instead of 5. I'm hoping to have it finished and posted no later than tomorrow night...so I'm just gonna leave this here and get straight back to work!**

**Thanks to all who have read/reviewed/followed/favorited and thanks, as always, to my beta, Xaraphis.**

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><p>One of worst things about being dead, Molly discovered fairly quickly, was her complete insensitivity to the passage of time. Hours, days, weeks…they all blended together – sometimes leaping <em>over <em>one another – and leaving her with no real idea of how long it had been since…well, _anything _really.

It was, to put it mildly, frustrating.

One stark reminder of just how long she had been a reluctant resident of 221B was the ever-changing face and form of little Lizzie Watson. The onward march of time was most apparent in her and almost before Molly's eyes, the tiny, bald cherub had vanished, leaving a pretty toddler with a halo of messy blonde hair in its place. A blink of an eye later and that halo of hair had grown into two long, neat plaits and the pretty toddler was suddenly a precocious little girl of eight – all knees and elbows and endless questions.

Molly was certain that she had never seen anything quite so endearing as the sight of those bright, inquisitive blue eyes peering out from behind a pair of too-big safety glasses as she watched her Uncle Sherlock dissect a cancer-riddled pancreas on his kitchen table. From the half-grin on Sherlock's face, he had felt very much the same way…

And oh…how she had _ached _to be more than simply a silent observer of that scene. Of _so many _scenes just like it as the years sped past.

The man himself had changed little enough. There was, she had noted one day with surprise, a shock of gray at his temples now as well as a peppering of the same throughout those lovely dark curls, but his face was very much as it had ever been. A few more lines round the eyes and mouth perhaps, but still every inch the Sherlock she had known.

She spoke to him often, even knowing that he couldn't hear her – berating his rudeness, praising his kindness and too often for her liking, decrying his recklessness. She listened and laughed and ached and sighed and wondered how it was possible to miss someone _so _much that you saw nearly every day. And it wasn't just him – she chatted at Mrs. Hudson and John and Mary and Greg and even, God help her, at Myrcoft. It was a lonely existence…and she missed them all.

Sometimes, she sang atrocious pop tunes at the top of her lungs and danced about the room, just to break up the stagnation and stillness that hung over 221B when Sherlock was away. She took no small pleasure in imagining his reaction, had he only been able to hear…to see…

He would undoubtedly have put on quite a good show of being bored by her silliness and utterly appalled by her decidedly bourgeois musical tastes. Secretly though, she imagined that he might actually have found her playfulness rather…charming.

Or at least, she liked to think he would. She wasn't so sure anymore…

Those early days aside, he had appeared to recover from her death with all the speed she would have anticipated from him – much as she loved him, Sherlock Holmes was _not _one to dwell on his feelings. Any softer notions he'd had towards her would have been quickly and efficiently dealt with and filed away in that brilliant mind; dismissed as useless to all current and future purposes.

It was the logical thing to do and she didn't fault him for it in the slightest. But still…it would have been nice to see some evidence that she had left a lasting impression on him. If she had, he certainly never showed it.

But then, no one did. No one ever even mentioned her name anymore.

A bit disheartening, that…but then, she wasn't quite sure why she would have expected any different. She had always been on the periphery of their lives; often present but never _quite _one of them. It would have made her angry, but there really wasn't much point in that anymore, was there?

It did occur to her from time to time that she could, considering her state, come up with all sorts of interesting ways to make her presence known – to _make _them remember her – but she never could bring herself to act on the impulse. She had not liked to impose in life, she certainly had no desire to do so in death.

At least, not _really._ If sometimes the pages of the books that Sherlock left open all over the flat didn't stayon the pages he had left them open _to_, well...that could be anything, couldn't it? Honestly, she didn't even like interfering _that_ much, but she had to do _something_. The afterlife, she had discovered with no little amount of disappointment, could be terribly boring.

And so, day after endless day…year after passing year…she kept herself to herself…

Right up until the night that she didn't.

It had been a difficult case.

Molly had watched Sherlock grow more and more frustrated with every day that passed. As with all of the more dangerous cases she had observed over the years, it had been brought to him by Mycroft; the older Holmes relying, as ever, upon the combination of sheer brilliance and ruthless determination that made his younger sibling so uniquely capable of solving the unsolvable.

She had been standing at Sherlock's shoulder, wringing her hands with dread, the night that Mycroft had approached him, weaving a tale of political intrigue and espionage that could have come straight out of the pages of an Ian Fleming novel. To the great consulting detective, it had sounded like great fun; a temptation too great to be denied.

To Molly, it had simply sounded dangerous.

She had never been less pleased to be proved right.

It was a Tuesday night, some three weeks after Sherlock had taken the case, when it happened.

Molly had been sitting sideways in Sherlock's chair, reading an article on kinase inhibitors and adenocarcinoma from the current edition of one of the many pathology journals he subscribed to when she heard it…the creak of the fourth step down from the landing outside. Frowning, Molly turned around in her seat, eyes jumping back and forth between the two doors that led without.

There was a shuffling, a light scraping sound and then…the distinctive click of a lock disengaging and Molly leapt to her feet, bolting into the kitchen just in time to see the handle of the door begin to turn.

When it eased open to reveal a dark shape, swathed head to toe in unrelieved black, she felt herself go cold. This person, whoever they were, they could do no harm to _her_…but they certainly meant to do harm to someone. And considering whose flat they had just broken into, it seemed a fairly safe assumption that Sherlock was the target.

The figure – a man, she could tell – crept silently through the darkness of the kitchen and began to move down the hallway toward Sherlock's bedroom.

The creak of a door from downstairs, followed immediately by Mrs. Hudson's all too familiar voice calling out Sherlock's name shattered the silence and Molly, gripped by a sudden and sickening terror, watched – paralyzed – as the shadowy man turned sharply around, the moonlight filtering in from the windows glinting off the barrel of a silenced pistol. Footsteps sounded on the stairs as Mrs. Hudson once again called out for Sherlock. Her steps were slower than they had been years before, but the dear old lady still moved steadily upwards...

The man crept forward, hovering just in the doorway of the kitchen, his gun at the ready and sighted unerringly at the outer door which hung slightly open.

The stairs groaned – the fourth from the top again – and Molly looked around, frantically searching for something…_anything_…

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was just outside the door now and there was a click as the landing lamp was turned on, spilling yellow light around the edges of the door. "You've left the door open, Sherlock."

With a prolonged creak, the door was pushed open from without and from the corner of her eye, Molly could see the man tense, his gun ready…

"No!" Molly flung her hands out towards Mrs. Hudson, a sharp gust of icy wind howling at her back and sending her hair flying into her face as it rushed past her and tore across the space between them and stopped the old lady in her tracks. Stumbling backwards onto the landing, Mrs. Hudson gave a yelp of shock when the wood of the door frame splintered just where her head had been, pierced through by a bullet.

A floorboard creaked and Molly's head snapped to the side, hair still flying around her face, a vortex of spectral wind swirling around her. The intruder had frozen, his eyes and his gun now trained on her, though she could see his hands tremble.

"Molly?"

Her name was a choked, gasping sound as it clawed its way past Mrs. Hudson's lips and Molly turned to look at her, surprised to see wide, terrified eyes staring at her – _seeing _her for the first time in so, so long – but she couldn't stop to think about that now. Couldn't consider what she had done…or what she was about to do…

"Go," she commanded, her own voice like a sigh upon the breeze. "Run!"

Another blast of unnaturally cold air erupted from behind her, sweeping forward and catching the door, slamming it shut just as Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to speak. Molly, expression grim, turned slowly to face the man who had nearly killed her unknowing – though far less so now – landlady…who no doubt planned to kill Sherlock as well.

He too was looking at her – seeing her as no one had for far too long. His face might have been hidden by a mask, but Molly could see his eyes, huge and brown and doubly as scared as Mrs. Hudson's had been. Which worked out just perfectly, she thought…

Focusing every shred of energy she had at him, Molly cocked her head to the side, watching him through narrowed, furious eyes. "You can't touch him," she hissed, an eerie echo turning the already sibilant words into a terrifying cacophony of sound. "I won't let you."

And without any further warning, Molly threw her arms out sideways, sending nearly every object on the kitchen table flying.

The last thing she saw before a wave of sheer exhaustion stole the image from her eyes was the sight of the masked gunman crumpling to the floor, unconscious, the bulk of Sherlock's microscope lying in a broken heap beside him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Two chapters in one day...apparently, I work best under tight deadlines! One more chapter to go.**

**Thanks to all who continue to read/review/follow/favorite! And thanks to my beta, Xaraphis - you rock, sis!**

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><p>Next Molly knew, late-afternoon sun was streaming through the windows of the lounge behind her, throwing the entire kitchen into a riot of light and shadow. She was standing in exactly the same spot she had been…but nothing was even remotely the same as it had been.<p>

The unconscious heap of masked intruder was – thankfully – gone and a quick glance around the rest of the kitchen showed that the mess she had made had been cleared away.

Her eyes landed on Sherlock's microscope, set back in its place on the table and she moved toward it, running a finger over the broken stage, the cracked turret and then up to circle the tip of the eyepiece, its lens cracked and jagged. She did not regret the damage – not only had it been inflicted for a good cause, but the sight of it was proof that she _hadn't_ dreamt it.

She actually _had _done those things. Honestly, she still wasn't sure how, but decided there was little point in questioning it – the ability had presented itself when the need arose. She could only hope that the need never arose again.

Of course, considering Sherlock's penchant for the mad, bad and dangerous, the chances that she would have to utilize her…_unique_ abilities again were better than she would have liked.

The downstairs door banged open, followed almost immediately by the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. _Sherlock_. Molly would know the cadence of his step anywhere.

He tore into the flat like the hurricane that he absolutely was, tossing his coat one way and his suit jacket another. Muttering and pulling at his hair, he paced up and down the length of the room, intense focus sharpening his features. Molly, who was still feeling out of sorts from her impromptu disappearing act – she had no idea where she had been, save that it was dark, and silent and so…_empty_ – smiled fondly at the sight.

The image of Sherlock Holmes in 221B Baker Street, solving a mystery was as dear to her as the memory of her father's rugged face or her mother's crooked smile.

"It isn't possible," Sherlock muttered, his eyes darting all over the place, expression going oddly grim for a moment before he slammed his eyes shut and spun around to face the fireplace. Smacking his hands down on the mantel angrily, he dropped his head. "It isn't _logical_."

There was something desperate in his voice – in his posture. Something that made Molly's heart crawl straight up into her throat. She took a step toward him, frowning now. "You'll figure it out," she assured, as she had done so _many _times over the years, unable to stop herself from offering the encouragement he needed even though she knew he would never hear it. "You always figure it out."

Another slam, more hurried steps on the stairs – the door burst open.

"Sherlock?"

John Watson, dark circles beneath his eyes and an all too familiarly harried expression on his face, skidded to a stop just beside where Molly was still standing at the edge of the kitchen, his relief at the sight of his friend a palpable thing. "You're ok!"

Sherlock, who had pushed away from the mantel the moment he heard his friend approaching, turned and shot John a dark look. "Of course I am," he snapped, stalking over and dropping himself into his chair. "Whatever made you imagine that I wouldn't be?"

Slightly out of breath, John breathed hard for several long, silent moments, his eyes never wavering from his friends face. "You bolted from the interrogation – you never do that. Considering…everything…I was concerned."

Face going blank, Sherlock shoved up out of his chair again, nervous energy seeping from his every pore. "I did not _bolt_," he corrected, haughty like he only ever was when he was lying through his teeth, "I merely excused myself with haste."

Molly heard John's huff from beside her. "You knocked over a water cooler and nearly _flattened _two PC's…"

"I _apologized_," Sherlock hissed, whipping around and stalking over to the windows.

"Yes, you did," John acknowledged, "which made it even more clear that you weren't ok."

"Oh, for _God's _sake…"

"Sherlock." John's voice was firm, implacable – the soldier lifting his head from within the mild-mannered Doctor. "You need to talk about this."

"No," Sherlock denied, shooting John a glare over his shoulder, "what I need to do is to _think_. Something that you are making extraordinarily _difficult_."

"We were in the middle of interrogating the man who was planning to _kill _you," John snapped, "the man who nearly _did _kill Mrs. Hudson…"

"Who also happens to be severely concussed and therefore useless." Sherlock turned back to look out the window, his hands folding together behind his back. "Utterly useless," he dismissed. "I have no time for imbecile's spinning fairy stories of the truth, John."

"I'm glad to hear that," John said with a nod. "Because that's exactly what he is, Sherlock…a man with a head injury talking a bit of nonsense." A pause. "You do know that's all it was, don't you?"

Silence filled the room, heavy and thick. Molly who had been standing by and listening, hoping to glean some idea of what exactly was going on from their conversation, sucked in a breath…holding it…waiting…

This was about _her_, she suddenly realized, glancing back and forth between John's sad, earnest face and Sherlock's tight-as-a-bow-string back. This was about what she'd done…about what the intruder had _seen_.

When nearly a full minute had passed and still Sherlock had said nothing, John let out a small sigh, shaking his head. "Molly isn't _here_, Sherlock," he said quietly and so, _so _delicately.

Sherlock's head dropped forward, forehead coming to rest on the window pane. "A blue scarf," he said, voice low and ragged. "He saw a woman wearing a blue scarf…"

Hope – so much hope – flared to life in Molly's chest, her hands flying up to grab at the scarf, fingers sinking into the cashmere. "Yes," she choked out. "Oh, yes, Sherlock…he did…I am…_I'm here_."

"He was a paid assassin who had been studying you for weeks," John countered, still so quiet and careful. "It would have been easy enough for him to find out about Molly – about the where and how of what happened to her."

"But Mrs. Hudson…"

"Isn't really sure what she saw," John insisted. "She only said that it _could have been_ Molly. And considering that she was high as a kite on her evening dose of 'herbal soothers', she was as likely to have seen Queen Victoria that night as she was Molly Hooper."

Sherlock nodded, seeming to accept his words and Molly's heart dropped, a completely irrational anger welling up in her chest. "It _was _me," she insisted, wishing she knew what she had done to show herself – wishing that she could make them _see_. "Sherlock...please…_please…"_

Jaw clenching, Sherlock lifted a fisted hand, letting it fall hard against the wall beside the window. "That's not…there are…_other _things, John…"

The hope, which had begun to wane at John's perfectly rational arguments – arguments that _she _would have made herself, had she been in his position – was kindled anew and she moved across the room, settling herself at Sherlock's side, hating the tension in him.

"What other things?"

She and John spoke the question as one – he, hesitant; she, breathless – and Molly nearly sobbed with happiness when Sherlock's head jerked toward her slightly, his brow creased with pained confusion and his eyes darting about almost desperately. "I…_hear _her," he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut as he turned away to face John. "Not often," he hastened to clarify upon seeing John's face, reading the concern in his friends eyes. "Only…only occasionally. I have never…" he stopped, sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I have always dismissed it as…as _sentiment_…"

"And that's exactly what it is, mate," John said, relief and sadness warring in his tone, "sentiment." A pause. "Though it's more than that too, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Molly, disappointed and furious and heartbroken, turned away from them both, her hands coming up to press against her cheeks, ice cold even with the inferno raging within her. "Not like this," she said softly, her voice breaking on the last word. "I don't…I don't want to hear it like this."

A moment of silence. A sigh.

"This solves nothing."

Eyes slipping shut, Molly's lips thinned as she tried very hard not to cry. From behind her, footsteps, the groan of leather.

"I need to think." A beat. "Go home, John."

Molly kept her back turned until, after a few more attempts to sway the detective to talk further had failed, the Doctor gave up and left, bidding his friend good evening. Once the door had closed behind him, she finally turned to face Sherlock…but froze the moment her eyes fell upon him…

He had thrown himself into his chair, legs splayed wide and head tipped backward. His eyes were open, staring blankly up at the ceiling; red-rimmed and suspiciously watery. His hands, long and elegant, gripped the arms of the chair tight, knuckles showing white beneath the skin.

Every word she had wanted to say…evaporated. All of her anger…all of her disappointment…faded.

For the first time in such a very long time, he looked so…_sad_.

Pulled toward his side like a compass needle toward north, Molly turned and dropped to the floor in an ungainly heap, her back against the side of his chair and her head lolling just at the edge of the arm. "I hate this," she muttered, swiping at her eyes and sniffing. "God, Sherlock…it's just not _fair_."

A shuddering breath issued from above her. And then…

"I do not believe in ghosts."

Molly's eyes slipped shut, pained resignation pulling her lips into a mockery of a smile. "I know you don't."

A growl. The smack of his open palm cracking down against the arm of his chair. "I do _not _believe in ghosts," he repeated, an edge to his voice this time.

She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I know you don't."

Silence.

"But I wish that I did."

The words were tiny, choked…and very nearly Molly's undoing. Swallowing a sob, she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying desperately not to give in to her grief. "I'm sorry," she gasped out. "I'm so…I'm so _sorry_, Sherlock."

They sat that way a very long time until Sherlock finally got up and retreated to his bedroom, succumbing to the lure of sleep. Once he was safely tucked away behind his bedroom door, Molly crawled into his chair, awash in the lingering scent of him. Only then did she allow herself to cry.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: So, there's this one done. Hope you enjoy and, to those who celebrate it, a very Happy Halloween!**

**Once again, thanks so much to all who took the time to read/review/follow/favorite this story! I appreciate every single one of you. And thank you so much to my sister, Xaraphis, for giving this a read over for me!**

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><p>Three years later, that 'bit of oddness' as Mrs. Hudson had come to call it, had been largely forgotten. Or at least, everyone pretended that it had been largely forgotten. Molly wasn't quite so sure that it had.<p>

Sherlock certainly acted as though nothing at all had happened, but she knew full well the intrinsic inaccuracies of _that _barometer. With everyone else, there were moments…searching eyes peering into the empty spaces of the flat, wondering glances aimed at the sofa that _still _sat on the far side of the room. The creak of a floorboard, the groan and thump of the pipes, would elicit a gasp and a look of such expectant eagerness that Molly was often tempted to reward them with…well…with _something_.

She wasn't quite sure what – she never had managed to duplicate her actions of _that _night. The nearest she had gotten, and only when the flat was entirely empty, was the gentlest whisper of a breeze. It had rustled the papers on Sherlock's desk and then dissipated almost immediately, leaving Molly thoroughly frustrated with herself. Being dead, she thought, would be far more useful if it came with an instruction manual.

The only thing she was _really _proficient at was turning pages – which, really, was all right. If there was only going to be one thing she was truly good at in her ethereal state, at least it was something useful.

She was, in fact, knee deep in a case study about a 10-month old boy with microcephaly and episodic cyanosis when it happened.

_It_.

The thing she had dreaded from the moment she realized that she'd been stupid enough to go and fall in love with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

He hadn't been home in several days, which wasn't at all unusual when he was on a case.

When she heard the downstairs door open, she smiled. But then…the tread on the stair was wrong. Slow and trudging rather than light and quick. There was sorrow in those steps and Molly straightened, heart thudding as she waited for the door to the flat to open.

Then it did.

John and Mary Watson stood just in the doorway, hands clasped tightly between them, their eyes red and raw as they gazed forlornly into the empty room.

Molly knew what it meant, their sadness…their grief…

Heart cracking open in her chest, she sank to the floor, her fingers wrapping in the scarf round her neck and pulling it up so that she could bury her face in it – remembering it, at that moment, as nothing more than _his_. She sobbed into it, a fear like nothing she had ever felt before clenching at her insides.

He was gone. The only thing that had made this…this…_existence_ bearable was gone.

But she was still here. Would she _always _be here? To see it emptied of everything that was _him_…to watch new people claim the space as their own? How could she bear it?

"I don't want to be here," she whispered brokenly. "I don't want to be alone."

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><p>Boxes were scattered throughout the flat, stacked against the walls and perched on every flat surface. The moving crew was scheduled for the following day.<p>

Molly had heard Mycroft – who had handled his brother's affairs – telling John as much the night before, both of them taking one last walk through of 221B before it was emptied and prepared to be let again. Mrs. Hudson hadn't wanted to do it, but Mycroft had been insistent that Sherlock would not have wanted her to hold onto something that he no longer had any use for.

A far cry from how things had been after the first time they had mourned the younger Holmes and painful proof that _this _time, he would not be coming back.

Laying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling as tears rolled down her face and into her hair, Molly tried not to imagine what it would be like tomorrow once the crews had gone, taking everything of him with them and leaving her in an empty flat.

_Alone_.

She closed her eyes, misery rising up in a wave and crashing over her…drowning her in…

"What the _hell _is going on?"

Molly froze, her eyes flying open at the snarled exclamation. That voice…

_That voice_…

She sat up sharply, turning as she rose, her feet falling to the floor, eyes wildly searching for something she didn't dare believe. A figure stalked into the lounge, long jacket fluttering behind him in a way she had never thought she would ever see again…

_Sherlock_.

He stopped with his back to her, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he stared down at the boxes stacked atop the seat of his chair. "_Mycroft_," he growled, thumping a fist against his thigh, "if this is your idea of a joke…"

"It's not a joke."

The words were out before Molly even consciously decided to speak, thin and high and trembling. Sherlock went still, clenched fists falling open. He didn't move, didn't turn, but Molly could see the tension rising in him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she took a hesitant step toward him, skirting the edge of the table that sat before her. "It's…it's not a joke, Sherlock," she repeated, fear – so much _fear_ – riddling her voice. "Do you…remember what happened?"

He said nothing. The silence in the flat was deafening.

Molly took another step toward him, her hands lifting out of habit to twist in the fabric of her – _his _– scarf. "I know how you feel right now," she said softly. "I…I remember how I felt…how _confused _I was when I…"

Sherlock whipped around, coattails flapping, his eyes landing square on hers for the first time in over a decade and the words died on Molly's tongue. His face was as she had last known it, his hair the peppery silver-black that lent him an air of distinction that she found quite absurdly attractive. He was looking at her with wide eyes, shock and disbelief writ large on the planes and angles of his face.

Nerves getting the better of her, she dropped her gaze, focusing on the shiny black of his shoes. "I heard everyone talking," she said in a rush, fingers twisting harder into the scarf, feeling the weight of it for the first time in years, "so I know what happened. I can…tell you, if you want. If you can't recall, I mean. Or…or _not_, if you…if you don't want."

"_Molly_…"

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head – hearing how ridiculous she sounded and _hating _it. "I know…I know…I'm babbling. Sorry…I'm just…I'm out of practice with speaking. At least, speaking _to _people. Much more used to speaking _at _them now, I'm afraid…"

A strangled sound – almost a laugh but not quite and then suddenly, he was right there, right in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders almost painfully. Molly gasped, her head snapping upright and her eyes finding his once more.

Tears welled in her eyes, the pressure of his touch overwhelming after so long without.

"_Oh_," she said, the word a wondrous sigh. Slowly – _so _slowly – she unwound her fingers from her scarf and reached out toward him, laying her palms flat against his chest. "You…" the word broke on a sob, "I can _feel _you."

"Molly," Sherlock said her name again, his own voice thick with astonishment. "Molly Hooper." He let out a shaky breath and yanked her to him, crushing her against him and wrapping his arms around her. "You're _here_."

Joy like nothing she had ever felt before bubbled up inside of her, making her nearly lightheaded with happiness. "I'm here," she affirmed, winding her own arms around him, holding him back just as tightly. "I've always been here, Sherlock."

His arms squeezed tighter, his head dropping to rest atop hers. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry that he…"

"You've nothing to apologize for." She fisted her hands in the back of his coat, pressing herself even further into him – she would have crawled inside of him if she could. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

"Yes, it was," he said sadly, resignation in every syllable. "It is. It is my fault that he…" he stopped, she felt his hand slid up her back, his fingers playing with the cashmere looped at the back of her neck. "I _hate _this scarf."

Molly let out a gurgle of pained laughter. "Not nearly as much I do, Sherlock, I can promise you that."

"Then why…"

She pulled back, her arms sliding down to rest on his forearms, his hands settling at her hips. Molly looked up at him, sighing sadly. "It won't come off. I've tried everything. I can't even unwrap it to tie it differently. It simply won't budge."

"Really?" Sherlock frowned, eyes shifting down to examine the length of cashmere critically. "Interesting."

It felt like no time had passed; like it had been mere hours since she had spoken to Sherlock, rather than the pile of years that actually lay between their last conversation and this one. Molly rolled her eyes, swatting at the consulting detective's arm. "It's not interesting, Sherlock. It's horrible and tragic and…and…_annoying_. You try living with this thing twisted round your neck for over ten years."

"Have you tried cutting it off?"

"I could barely manage to turn pages in a book. Scissors were a bit outside my means."

He darted a look up at her, brow arching. "While that answers several lingering questions I've had about my apparent inability to keep my place in a book these past few years, it is also, I believe, quite egregiously inaccurate. Molly…you brained an intruder with my microscope – which cost me a _fortune _to repair, I might add – I doubt _scissors _would have proven particularly difficult to manage after _that_."

Molly shook her head. "You charged the repairs to _Mycroft's _card, so it didn't cost you a cent…and I watched you do it, Sherlock, so don't deny it. As for how I did all of…_that_, I've no idea. I've certainly never managed to do it since."

Interest well piqued now, Sherlock brought both his hands up to tug at the scarf experimentally. "I repeat, _interesting_. I suppose you thought to try…"

"Sherlock."

He stopped, thoughts whirling behind those kaleidoscope eyes. "What?"

He was as he had ever been; death hadn't changed Sherlock Holmes even one tiny bit. Molly honestly didn't think she had ever been happier. "I don't think it's going to come off. I think it might be a…a _rule _or something."

"Nonsense, Molly," Sherlock scoffed. "Rules were made to be broken – this," he held up the trailing length of the scarf between them, "will simply require a bit of ingenuity and a good deal of experimentation. We shall certainly have the time."

She rolled her eyes. "_Obviously_, Sherlock, but…don't you think there are other things we should be discussing at present?"

"Such as?"

Molly smiled like she hadn't in far too long. "Oh, I dunno…the fact that we're both _dead_?"

"Dull," he dismissed, the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth blunting the sharpness of the word. "What is there to discuss about _that_? You're dead, yes, been aware of that for some time now, thanks. _I'm _dead – admittedly newer information, but still not particularly interesting; it's a wonder I lasted as long as I did, really."

"Yes," Molly agreed, reaching up to brush the hair back from his forehead, fingering one of the more silvery of his curls. "Yes, it really is."

Sherlock reached up, trapping her hand in his, pressing her palm against his cheek. "I…I _missed _you, Molly Hooper."

"I know," she said through tears, bringing her other hand up to cup his other cheek, cradling his face – his stupid, _perfect_ face – between her palms. "I _heard_. And I missed you too."

He sucked in a breath, his hands coming up to wrap around her wrists, his thumbs rubbing circles in her skin. "You heard," he gave her wrists a squeeze, "so you…you know that…that I…"

Her smile turned soft, gentle. "I know, Sherlock. And I hope you know that…that I do too."

The breath rushed back out of him and he leaned even further into her hands, his eyes sliding shut. "You do." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "That's…that's…_good_."

Molly slid her hands backwards, curling them around the back of his neck, her eyes dropping shut. "Yeah, Sherlock. That's good."

Silence.

Sherlock sighed. "What _are _we going to do in an empty flat?"

"Famous as you were? I'm fairly certain Mrs. Hudson will have it occupied again fairly quickly."

"Well what are we going to do _then_?"

"I dunno. You're the creative one – I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Mmm. It will make for some _fascinating _experiments."

More silence.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You were raised a Catholic…is it _only _demons that are capable of possessing people?"

"No. Absolutely not, Sherlock. You are _not _attempting to possess anyone."

"But…"

"No."

"For the sake of _science_, Molly…"

"Oh, my _God_."


End file.
